Brief peeks
by Hagstrom
Summary: Series of drabbles and oneshots about the 221B heroes
1. Unleashed

A word was all it took to stop the furious riot in his head and to arrest himself from his ire, taking into account his surroundings and himself.

Looking down he was both ashamed and dissatisfied.

Ashamed because he hadn't lost control in such a way since that terrible day at Maiwand.

Dissatisfied because the bloody bastard beneath his shaky, bloodied, swollen fist was still breathing.

Suddenly he understood something alarming and capital; his best friend had the ultimate power over him.

Holmes was able to stop him using not force but just a word. His name. His christian name.

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So this is my first drabble. And my first anything at trying something in english and in Sherlock Holmes fandom. Hope you like it =) And reviews are always welcome!


	2. White for good

Trembling hands, unsteady gait, and diminished sight. Blond-grey hair turned white for good and against all odds, lost weight leaving a lean and somewhat fragile frame behind.

Sometimes, Sherlock Holmes would have happily traded his observational skills for blissful ignorance of the steady march of time and the estimations of body resistance to accumulated years. Yet, some things never change. Seeing John Watson chewing his lower lip in the same way that he did when he was 24, when the Sunday crosswords proved challenging, was an inestimable gift.

The familiar deep voice, aged slightly, reached his ears, suddenly bringing him into the present once more.

"Dear chap, could you help me with this one? It says the…"

And of course, thought Holmes while he moved from his window chair to sit beside his best friend; who would have predicted both of them reaching old age, despite their jobs and their circumstances?

Sherlock smiled.

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So this little ficlet is dedicated to one person in particular, for helping with this -and another fic which is still in progress- and for being so supportive and an example to follow- Capt_facepalm.


	3. The Arrival

When he first arrived to London, Harry was the one waiting in the docks, with the usual bags under his eyes and tattered clothing (though he look considerably better than himself, that was for sure). After collecting his meager possessions, he greeted his brother with as much strength as he could. Embracing people used to be such an easy task…

"A moustache Hamish? Where is your full beard? I used to be so jealous of you!"- said Harry, on the way to his house. The doctor was to stay at his brother residence until he could find accommodation of his own, though the lawyer was more than willing to share the house with him, John Watson's pride couldn't allow that for long.

"It's military fashion! And not that easy to keep trim and clean but it's preferable to have a beard in that unbearable heat! – Harry smiled easily and John realized how much he missed that sincere and relaxed smile of men in no immediate danger of being no more.

"Sounds quite logical, brother mine. Now, my dear lad, tell me, where is it that you want to eat. And perhaps later, if you're feeling up to it, we can go out…?"

By next Friday John was out of his brother's house and in a room at the Strand. The expense was considerable but he was well aware of his economic situation, his proneness to alcohol and chance games to risk being his brother's crony for too long. Besides, arguing with him at every turn and for any situation was simply exhausting. And his health was in frank decadence, he had fainted twice already, thankfully he was in his own room and always had the good luck of landing at least partially on his bed, though his shoulder resented him for every movement afterwards.

Harry was baffled by the ex-soldier's decision and felt rejected and angry. He never visited Hamish at Baker Street, not even when Sherlock Holmes summoned him to help his own brother.

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The next chapters will be reposts of drabbles and oneshots I wrote around july for a watson_woes challenge, but forgot to post them here. I hope you like them!


	4. Voices

He didn't know how many they were or how they had managed to sneak up seventeen stairs without him noticing. He fervently hoped for Mrs. Hudson to be out or fast asleep because he couldn't bear to think anything else.

He was sure Holmes was not in the flat; otherwise he would not be choking to death, reprieved of precious air with something as plebeian as a fluffy pillow. Both his shoulder and back hurt like the devil due to old and recent injuries and the sudden and desperate strain he was submitting them, his mind was dulling, his chest in agony.

It didn't lasted much, for a strange drowsiness started to spread from his head, and half aware that he was fading quickly. He could only think of his beloved Mary; she calling him already. However something was not alright with the voice, it sounded too deep, almost like a man's…

Before anything else could be processed, the looming darkness took over.


	5. A great visitor

Mycroft is not a man who enjoys the company of others, hence the great reason of the Diogenes Club.

On his way back of an errant he had to perform personally, for there were some matters too delicate to be handed over to someone else, he passed over Baker Street. It was well past midnight and the window of 221B was radiating the expected yellow light. He decided that a quick visit wouldn't go amiss and ordered the cabbie to stop.

Mycroft was genuinely and unexpectedly curious as to why his brother had decided that the Doctor's presence was agreeable at all times when up until that meeting, he couldn't bear to be with any other human being for more than two hours since he was a schoolboy.

He was received properly of course, and soon was sitting by the fire, chatting quietly with his brother over some monograph though he could sense the detective was both surprise and suspicious of this visit. The doctor, after giving the proper greeting and providing him with the scotch now warming in his hand, excuse himself and went to sit at his desk and soon after was lost into the writing of the next Strand adventure. Mycroft looked at the ex-soldier more carefully and noticed something that could explain those unnatural and fresh lines of worry on his brother's face. He turned to look at Sherlock and the detective warned him with those grey eyes, menacing coldness lurking behind.

Ah, so they are not facing the problem. Yet.

Perhaps all they need is a little push and so Mycroft wondered aloud if the Doctor knew how Sherlock came to have that aquiline nose. However and luckily for Mycroft, Watson was too engrossed over his efforts to make a decent story that he missed whatever was said between the Holmes. Sherlock got up to refill his pipe but not before giving him a nasty look and a mouthed "Don't".

Mycroft empties the tumbler and remembers.

Those winter vacations remain in his brain for two quite different reasons; the first being it was the first anniversary of Mother's death and Father was finding difficult to control both the drinking habit and bad moods, up to the point of losing control and hitting Sherlock with unchecked force, for having tipped over and broken their mother's favorite vase. The little green chips of expensive porcelain were strewn all over the carpet and suddenly Father looked at Sherlock with cold calmness. His little brother was thirteen years old at the time and although quite tall and lean he didn't had much of his actual agility or grace to dodge punches. Mycroft didn't make it on time for saving Sherlock the broken nose.

"He's having daily nightmares Mycroft. About his wife, the war and myself, about my "death". Teas and powders stop helping long ago and he had spent more hours awake than myself this week." Sherlock said, covering his face with both hands, in a rare gesture of desperation, as soon as his friend ascended the stairs to his room. "He doesn't tell me about it but I can already see him withering away with each day"

"Have you tried tal..."

"Yes yes brother, I may not be the most intelligent man in the British Empire but the Doctor is an exceptionally hermetic man when he wants to be!"

"Drink with him then" recommended Mycroft

"What? Haven't you been listening tha..."

"No you idiot. Disguise yourself as some ex-soldier or someone he can relate to and drink with him. Find out what is exacerbating all of those memories and do your best to correct the situation. If that doesn't work, we'll think of some other plan" - At this Sherlock looked intrigued but Mycroft answered before he had a chance of even asking - "Whoever is accepted for friendship from the likes of you is certaintly worth the effort.

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A much more lenghty chapter. But it's got Mycroft in it!


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